THEY are the most victimized people in New York: cursed at, taunted, mocked, socked and, once a year, utterly devastated.
So, understandably, they drink a lot and keep to themselves.
They’re New York’s Red Sox fans – and while they always feel like misfits, this week – as Boston tries to beat the Yankees for a run at the World Series – has become soul-crushing.
“If you’re stuck with Yankees fans, that’s really torture,” said 28-year-old Jacqui Rich, clutching a beer Tuesday night at Harrison’s, a small Upper West Side bar and restaurant owned by Keith Harrison, a fellow Sox fan.
Rich – who’s engaged to a Yanks loyalist – has been scarred since an incident at the Stadium last year: “I left covered in mustard,” she said gravely.
“Yankees fans are bad people,” said her pal Scott Bluestein, who threw a full can of beer at his TV when Aaron Boone hit the walk-off home run that crushed the Sox in Game 7 of last year’s playoffs.
“I have been verbally and physically assaulted by Yankees fans,” adds Red Sox fan Brett Finer, 26, who suffered his worst abuse while wearing a “Yankees Suck” T-shirt to the Stadium during last year’s Game 7. “I did take it off,” he added. “I was getting killed.”
They may be New Yorkers, but Rich and her fellow Sox fans are all originally from Boston, where they were ingrained with hatred for pinstripes.
“It just gets so emotional,” Rich said.
Adding to her distress: at safe-haven Harrison’s, the occasional Yankee fan lolls about, eating spaghetti, drinking cold beer, and laughing it up, utterly carefree.
“How do these people get in?” asked a despondent Rich.
By the third inning, a line of hopeful Sox fans were watching the game through the windows at Riveria Cafe, a filled-to-capacity Sox spot in the West Village.
“Yankees fans are horrible to us,” said 23-year-old Meghan Faria, who was turned away at the door. “We tried to go to a bar that was a mix of Yankees and Sox fans, and girls there tried to fight us.”
Yet she and her friend Julie had the kind of paradoxical faith only a Sox fan possesses.
“We’ll get in here,” she said, as the Yanks scored yet another run.
The rowdiest Sox fans head to Midtown’s Hairy Monk – a hole-in-the wall with no door policy.
But a Sox fanatic will always find something to complain about.
“There are too many Sox fans in here!” yelled Michael Westort, a flush-faced, congenial Maine native. It now was 5-0, Yanks.
“I live two blocks away,” he said. “I’ve already gone home once to relax and have a cigarette.”
Westort convinced the owner of the Hairy Monk to buy the New England Sports Network. “I hang out with a bunch of drunk Irish – I told him, ‘It’ll be worth your while!'” He laughed. “Oh look – here’s my token Yankee friend!”
Westort introduced his pal Michael Cohen, who was wearing a blue, button-down shirt and a placid expression. “Game 7 last year, I refused to be here,” Cohen said.
“OH – HE JUST CAME BACK!” someone yelled.
Mariano Rivera had walked into the dugout, and a sad young Sox fan – who comes to the Hairy Monk by himself all the time, because his friends are Yankees fans – walked out the door, head down.
“Last week at Joshua Tree – which is on 35th and Third, please print that – I got my hat thrown off and stomped on by Yankees fans, and then the bouncer threw me out,” said Sox fan Jim Murphy. “I need to be in this bar. My friends are Yankee fans – OH, F— YOU!” he yelled.
The Yanks had scored another run. It was 6-0.
Sox fans filed out in despair. The ones who stuck around didn’t want to talk anymore.
Even though Boston rallied – to no avail – Harrison said he had a similar experience at his place uptown. “Last night, it just felt like . . .” he trailed off. “Sox fans left early,” he said.
What about the Yankees fans? Did they stick around?
“Oh yes,” he said, as if it were the most obvious question ever. “Of course!”
